


Change of Time

by ameliajean



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-14 23:46:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliajean/pseuds/ameliajean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I had a dream last night</i>
  <br/>
  <i>And when I opened my eyes</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Your shoulderblade, your spine,</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Were shorelines in the moonlight</i>
</p><p>"Change of Time" // Josh Ritter</p>
            </blockquote>





	Change of Time

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel of sorts to this work: [To the Sea](http://archiveofourown.org/works/349707).

Their return to Baker Street is rather low key. Even with one of Sherlock's hands occupied by a travel bag and the other firmly clasped around John's, they receive very little attention on the journey from the train station to the flat.

They pass places they used to frequent together: the Chinese restaurant that stays open well past midnight, the hole-in-the-wall place where John convinced Sherlock to try the greasy chips, the stretch of brick buildings with spray-paint graffiti. They take it all in as if they're seeing it with fresh eyes, almost like being homesick for a place that nearly ceased to exist.

It's well into the evening when they step out of the cab and stare silently at the front door, only for a split second. And then they both look to the sky at nearly the exact same moment.

"Still beautiful," Sherlock says.

John's voice is tinged with wonder. "It really is, isn't it?"

They share a look that lingers until a cool gust of air flattens Sherlock's collar to his neck; then they laugh like they haven't laughed together in ages. They haven't. God, it feels amazing to laugh like that again, so comfortable and effortless.

And it is only surreal because it isn't.

\- - - -

Sherlock settles onto his side so they're lying face to face, and his shoulder blocks the subdued light of dusk filtering in through the window. They are in a world entirely of their own making; a valley running between their bodies composed of fresh linen and all of the quiet things that comprise the ease with which this moment unfolds. Their pupils dilate and fix on one another.

Ever inquisitive, he feels compelled to ask: "How did you know?"

"I kept wanting to fit the pad of my thumb against your eyebrow," John smiles to himself, the gesture lost in shadow. "Maybe that sounds absurd, but I just..."

Sherlock slides his hand beneath John's and draws it between their faces; he places John's palm against his cheek and closes his eyes in a gesture of serene, unwavering acquiescence. _I am yours_.

The light pressure of John's thumb graces the fine hairs and rests just there, at the brow's widest point, as four fingers slide into Sherlock's mussed curls. There's an intake of breath, but it's not shock or surprise or goosebumps. It is right. It is home.

Before Sherlock can open his eyes, _but god, not that he'd want to, they're so heavy, and this is so utterly brilliant_ , John nudges forward a bit until their lips are touching. They don't kiss. They don't move. They simply exist, together.

And then there are more words, in John's low voice, a surprise to his own ears. "And that bit between your nose and your upper lip-"

There's a smile in his tone. "My philtrum?"

"Yes," John huffs an amused breath. "And a drop of sweat settling on it as we -- as you," he falters a tick. "I thought about how the peaks of your upper lip would feel," he says, picturing the thin line of his own.

There's beauty in juxtaposition. The juxtaposition of two things that shouldn't fit, but do.

"I will," Sherlock's lips move, dry and solid and real. And quieter still, "We will."

John inhales deeply, relishing the sweet scent of tea and mint mingling in their warm exhalations. When he speaks again, a spot of wetness on his lower lip tenuously sticks it to Sherlock's. "Do you know what's mad?"

"Probably, but tell me anyway," he says. His eyes open slowly.

"This doesn't feel mad at all. It's. It's-"

"Easy," Sherlock slips the word in the space where it ought to go.

"Yes."

Beyond this moment, the majority of their communication is merely susurrus noise of mutual agreement; of appreciation and affection. Of sincere, whole-hearted devotion.

And it _is_ easy, because it's always been easy (even when it wasn't). It was easy when they didn't speak for days, and when they did, and when life was navigating the streets of London while in pursuit of a criminal or accidentally overlapping fingers while putting away the groceries. Even when it was hearts-pounding-out-of-their-chests exciting, and even when it was kip-on-the-sofa-'til-the-tea-goes-cold, it was easy.

Because they would rather be together than apart, the desire for one another's company like the tidal pull beneath a full moon, and it is as simple as that.

Sherlock gently digs his nose at John's cheek to draw their lips together, apart, together.

Four hands smooth the peaks and valleys of newly muscled arms, the gentle slope of rib bones, the dip just below the last rib, and rest. Palms with fine sheens of sweat (it's the balmy weather, nothing else) press against fabric that smells of the sea air and pull it up. Fingertips graze bare skin; it isn't electric or breathless. It isn't dangerous or forbidden. It is small huffs of approval and knees-grazing-thighs.

They are made for this.

With lips between teeth and toes wriggling through socks, they laugh softly and take turns pinning one another against the mattress and making half-reasoned remarks that don't sound like anything at all: _"a little bit... oh, if you'll just... can I... yes, that's..."_

They are not fully comprised of their mistakes, nor their past, nor previously harboured resentments. This is not an undoing or a cataclysm just as much as it isn't the result of any singular moment. They are like anyone else beneath the touch of someone in whom they trust completely: pliant, curious, delighted.

Sherlock braces himself with one hand on either side of John's chest and a knee situated between John's legs. It is still. They are still. The room is flooded with faded orange light, slowly spilling into the calm of evening. He presses a lingering kiss to the space just between John's eyebrows and a shuddering breath of relief -- and yes, maybe just a bit of disbelief -- contracts John's chest like a hiccup waiting for a glass of water.

The soft pads of his lips stretch into a grin against John's skin; John's hand circles around Sherlock's bicep and runs down to his wrist. A slight squeeze.

Yes.

It is what fills John's head: _yes_. Just this one thought, endless, looping, infinite. John has never believed in anything quite like he believes in this. There is a certain kind of faith that only this man is able to invoke, and it is bright white, encompassing, resolute.

Sherlock closes his eyes. "May I-"

"Yes."

In time, they are pressed together, moving slowly, teeth testing the taut (surprisingly ticklish) skin of John's inner thigh, tongue tracing the crescent of Sherlock's navel.

It hits them in waves, how much they've missed one another. Not the big moments or the important words, but the toast crumbs and footfalls on the stairs, early in the morning when John is off to the surgery or Sherlock is off on a hunch. The simple notion of being in the same place at the same time is overwhelming.

Sherlock settles between John's legs and allows himself a brief, familiar, unabashed expression of pure victory, as if he's just said something brilliant and knows he's won an argument. Their eyes meet. A sharp exhalation and the steadying, near-bruising press of thumbs against hip bones, and Sherlock's lips are around him. John's hands search and find fistfuls of hair, unsteadily massaging erratic patterns at sweat-damped temples.

He holds John with an unexpected sort of reverence while experimenting with pace; his cheeks alternately hollow and relax as he dips his head, pulls away, curls his tongue a bit at just the right moment, and is positively delighted with the way John's heels dig into the mattress. 

This would probably be an excellent moment to ask questions like _"where on earth...?"_ and _"how did you...?"_ but John can't find the words for the life of him. It's taking enough energy just to allow those hands to press him into the bed. Sherlock's bed.

God, he's in Sherlock's bed.

And that's it: the private, intimate notion of his body inhabiting the place where this man sleeps: then, now, tomorrow, and oh, years from now. He flattens his left foot against the sheet and grazes the arch of his right foot against the soft flesh just above the protrusion of Sherlock's hip bone. His hips tilt forward, forward, forward, and he feels himself being swallowed down, to the end, to the deep, to the bottom of the sea.

Sherlock drags his lower lip across John's abdomen as he rises so their lips may meet and leaves a trail of wet heat in his wake. Their mouths fit together again and it may be a bit messier and slightly hurried but it is still the easiest thing in the world. 

To imagine this was torturous; to participate in it is like breathing.

The sun disappears beneath the skyline and John fits his hand between them. He forms his fingers around Sherlock's length and calls upon the memory of his own touch: light, slow, maddening. Sherlock goes a bit slack and grins just at the edge of a grimace. Something rough and low sounds an awful like "oh, please would... just..." but no, that can't be his own voice, so unfamiliar and pleading.

John mumbles against the man's lips, "yes, alright," and hurries his pace.

It is exactly half past seven. Sherlock comes with hands trapped between skin and sheets, palms flattened against John's shoulderblades, nose tucked into the hollow of John's clavicle.

They lie like this, breathing, minds blank, utterly exposed. It takes all of three minutes before they peel apart and lie with eyes glued to the ceiling, sweat gathered at the smalls of their backs and soaking into the sheets.

It is difficult, just for a split second, for John to believe that this bed will be theirs; that it will smell like him and them and keep their imprints like the sinking of heels into wet sand. But it will. It _does_.

There is one moment when each wonders what happens after this. But it passes, as they do, and John settles against Sherlock's side. They adjust until toes touch ankles and fingers rest on breastbones. It is comfortable. It is exactly what they've always known they've missed, but never quite managed to work out in its timing.

"People will talk," Sherlock says; his voice belies just a hint of caution. (He doesn't care in the slightest and never has.)

Yes, they certainly will.

John imagines years of mending tattered clothes and arguing about taking out the bins and boiling enough water for two cups of tea. He thinks of the bills on the mantle and how they should always bear two addressees, and how takeaway tastes better in front of the telly with two obtrusive feet against his thigh. 

There is his life, the two of them, together. There is nothing more than this. There is this.

 _This_.

He presses a chaste kiss to Sherlock's side and feels an arm tighten around him. He finally allows his eyes to fall shut.

"Let them."

That could be the simple statement after which they sleep; they could wake to expired orange juice and stale muffins and decide to go out for a proper breakfast. One could trail after the other until they fall in step, sip their coffee, and turn up their collars just beside the Thames; they could kiss there, quick and without forethought, and laugh about things that only make sense between them.

But Sherlock is too curious for simple.

He runs his thumb along John's forearm.

"What if they-"

"I don't care," John says, body slack and limbs heavy.

"But you can't possibly know how-"

"I'm shagging my best friend, who happens to be Sherlock bloody Holmes," he pauses to mentally complete his sentence before daring to finish it aloud. "Who happens to be brilliant and stubborn and... and I'm mad about him."

The reply is surprisingly terse; trustful. "Okay."

Their lips taste of salt, of sweat, and they fall asleep just as the city comes alive.

\- - - -

The next afternoon when they've drunk their coffee and had a kiss beside the Thames in the cool air, they remind one another that it isn't just shagging (of course it's not); that it isn't just two best mates, even when it is, because it's a bit more permanent than that. Not that it needs spelling out.

The clock tower chimes. They laugh.

Same as they ever were.

It's only the time that's changed.


End file.
